


il tuo sangue è sangue mio

by thatgothlibrarian



Category: Il trovatore - Verdi/Cammarano
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgothlibrarian/pseuds/thatgothlibrarian
Summary: No, soffrirlo non poss'io...Il tuo sangue è sangue mio!...Ogni stilla che ne versiTu la spremi dal mio cor!No, I cannot bear it:your blood is my blood!Every drop you shed of it,you're pressing from my heart!I cannot keep singing with the smoke in my lungs. Mother, is this what it was like for you, too? I thought it would hurt more.Manrico… My son… Mother…Mother, he is still alive, but have I avenged you well enough? Do you see how his soul is blackened and charred just as if I had burned him instead of my own son?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	il tuo sangue è sangue mio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> Hello hello! This was an extremely fun prompt to fill. _Il trovatore_ is such a bonkers opera, so I had a blast coming up with my own story to add to its rich tapestry of drama. This fic is from the POV of Azucena as she burns to death at the stake. In this scenario, Manrico was not executed. However, he eventually finds out what Azucena did (even though she...totally tells him in Act II...) and calls for her death.

Do you hate me, even now, my Manrico? Do you see that it is the only true form of love? Do you see that even your love for Leonora was forged in it?  _ ¡Al aire libre! ¡Al aire libre! Dámelo, martillo. _ Instead of comforting her as she died, you only thought of yourself, your hatred, and your grief. I see your grief. I see how you go to him for comfort. I see what that comfort looks like. Do you see?

But the way these ropes rub my skin raw, that is better than all the kisses you ever gave me. I wonder if my son's kisses would sting so sweetly?

_ "A nuestras montañas…" _

Tell me, Manrico, do his lips taste like the fresh mountain springs of home? Now that you know, will you ever be able to drink water again? Have I ruined that for you, too?

I cannot keep singing with the smoke in my lungs. Mother, is this what it was like for you, too? I thought it would hurt more.

Manrico… My son… Mother…

Mother, he is still alive, but have I avenged you well enough? Do you see how his soul is blackened and charred just as if I had burned him instead of my own son?

Do you not wonder, Manrico, why di Luna did not kill me once you begged for my life? Why he did not kill you? Do you not wonder why your body gives him no comfort? Now you see how hateful gentleness is. Every time I fed you from my breast, I felt you suck the life from me. Now you spill it into him, and he remains as unwilling as I was in giving it to you. Do you not wonder why he lets you touch him if he lies there cold and unmoving underneath you? I wonder what made you go to him that first time. How did you move past your hatred? Or perhaps it was because you hated him that you touched him. I'm not sure there is a difference. It sickens me. It’s what you deserve.

I remember the first song you played for me on your lute. An old Moorish tune. The Andalusian words were thick on your own Spanish tongue, but your voice soared like a nightingale's. You've always had the most beautiful voice, Manrico. Even now, as you stand there silent in front of me, I can hear the gorgeous sobs and screams from just a few hours ago. How you shouted at me for lying to you, for deceiving you, for betraying you. Remember that I never disagreed with your accusations. You’ve always been such a smart boy. 

"Will you not even tell me you love me, Manrico? You know I've always loved you." Do you hear my voice over the burning roar? I cannot see you anymore. I don’t know if I still have eyes. I know that you will say—have said—that I never did love you. But how could I have raised you if I didn't, in my own way? Maybe the way I love you wasn't what you needed, or what you can understand. Will you cry for me, when I am gone? When you too leave this world, will you come to find me in the flames?

I do not blame you for calling for my death, now that you know. I thought I had already told you. I thought you already knew. I thought, perhaps, that it was obvious. But I do not blame you. How could I? I knew I would end up tied to a pyre just like my mother, one day. I knew my skin would blister just as hers did, just as my son's did. It was only a matter of time, you see. I'm glad it was you and not him who sentenced me, in the end. It's better this way.

I know you will not say anything more. I know that your admonishment is the last time I will ever hear your beautiful voice. I am sure God speaks with your voice, damning me in your same dulcet tones.  _ How could you raise me knowing who I was, _ you asked me.  _ Why did you not kill me? _ I'll tell you why I didn't kill you, Manrico. I'll tell you.

You took your first steps on a quiet spring morning. I had taken you out to a field of wildflowers so that you would always have beautiful things to walk in. Greens and pinks and yellows. No red fire here. No, just your rosy cheeks and the fire in your eyes when you set one shaking foot down after another. You fell into my arms after a few moments, but you had done such a good job. I was so proud of you. I forgot, for a moment, that you weren’t my son. I raised you as my son, and sometimes you might as well have been. I even see some of my mother in you, Manrico. She loved to sing, too. The lute I gave you? That was hers.

Don't you see?

Does he like your voice, when you whisper in his ear and against his skin? I don't see how he couldn't.

"Of course I love you, mother.”

My son…is this what it felt like when I threw you in the fire? I thought it would hurt less.

**Author's Note:**

> There are two quotations from the libretto in this that I have translated to Spanish! And by translate, I mean copy/paste into Google Translate. I don't speak Italian or Spanish, so I hope it's not horribly incorrect.


End file.
